Evelyn Andreas

This was the book that taught me I would never be an artist. My first encounter with the tale of Cinderella - a story so ubiquitous that it has given its name to the entire "rags-to-riches" genre - it was an important part of my library as far back as I can remember. I pored over it incessantly as a child, examining the pictures and, eventually, reading the text. Many were the times I tried to capture the magic of Ruth Ives' illustrations: the flowing folds of Cinderella's ballgown, the delicate splay of her fingers, the arch way in which her head is turned toward her prince, her mysterious smile...

I spent countless hours trying to reproduce these images, laboriously tracing the outlines, painstakingly attempting to fill in the details, but no matter how many times I repeated the process, I never succeeded in producing anything remotely worthwhile. It was a bitter blow, and as with many such life lessons, I didn't give in with a good grace. No, it took me a long time to be convinced that I had no talent in that direction...

Still, the Evelyn Andreas/Ruth Ives version of Cinderella will always be one of the treasured volumes from my childhood - a memento of a time when anything was possible. Is it any good? I have no idea. I think that if I were encountering it for the first time as an adult, I would probably infinitely prefer the more recent version done by Kinuko Craft. But what does that matter? For me, this is Cinderella, and it always will be.… (meer)